Motherhood Meets Mastectomies

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Listening Ears

We have a major problem with listening around here. I probably repeat the same thing over and over a hundred times a day. I’m surprised my little big girl doesn’t think her name is, “1,2,3”. Those magic numbers are her cue to pay attention. I wish I had an equivalent for her clone, my husband. Their ability to tune me out is uncannily similar. I can’t ignore my own prowess when it comes to selective hearing. When he starts talking about anything to do with finance, politics or baseball, I get that deer in the headlights expression. It’s no coincidence that my nieces’ nickname for me is LaLa. My parents said I was in LaLa Land for most of my childhood. I heard a lot of “what color is the sky on your planet?” or “hey space cadet, back to Earth” from my siblings. So while I get frustrated at my offspring for a genetic trait that I blame on my husband, maybe I have to reexamine my own dysfunction. During my appointments with doctors throughout this Boobacious Journey I have made a concerted effort to write everything down. I have absolutely no recall for aural learning. I am visual and have a photographic memory. If I hear it, it’s bound to be back in the ether of my home planet (the sky alternates between pink and orange like sunset and turquoise, depending on my mood). But if I write something down, it will be stored for a long time. Good thing I recorded my schedule for ovarian health, I’m due for my biannual ultrasound. Joy.